Naked
by Chemically Used
Summary: StandAlone.


It was never a good time to look in a mirror.

Lying in bed with eyes closed so tight you thought all those tiny little vessels in your eyelids would burst. The silence was the worst part, but then again the sound of breathing lungs was even worse.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Sigh.

He knows what you're doing. He hates it, he wants to physically harm you every time you get this way. But it's not like you could control it.

Control.

It was his hand down your pants, fingers softly touching over the curve of your ass. Your lungs got so tight it felt as if they were like the stiff latex of a red balloon in the middle of an icy winter day.

"It's okay." He tells you, but you aren't so sure. When had anything in your life ever been okay?

You try to imagine yourself anywhere else, anywhere but here. But where else would you be, but here?

The alcohol you consumed earlier felt like it was beginning to flush from your system, but that greasy food from that late nite diner obviously failed to sop up everything in your belly, so here your head starts to swim again. That horrendous giggle, high-pitched and awkward comes from your mouth. As soon as it does, you regret ever drinking in the first place.

Silly. That's all this is. Some silly charade that you've gotten yourself mixed up in. And he's still got his grubby little fingers down your pants. What does he find so wonderful about your ass anyway? He's not probing, just touching. Soft. Gentle. Slow. He thinks this will calm you. Hah.

"This would be easier if you'd relax." He whispers in your ear.

And you're thinking that this would be easier if you weren't so damn aroused by this. Because hell, you don't want to be. It's him, that person you see day in, day out. 24/7/365 and this is just so wrong.

But it's so right.

Moan.

He's really done you in. Those damn fingers of his touch your hip and move ever so gracefully over that chubby little patch of flesh over to your belly. It's the most bizarre erogenous zone, but for some reason you can't help but melt when touched there.

He smiles. Why did you open your eyes to look?

And then his mouth is on yours again. It's wet but dry at the same time and now, your lips are so dry that they're sticking to your teeth in funny snarls due to the intensity and force of the way he's kissing you.

Your heart kicks in like the kicking thud of a floor drum. You think that it's the loudest thing in the room at the moment, but then you hear the way he's breathing. And that makes you freeze because you realize that you're touching him. Your hands are on him, feeling their way around the lines and bends in his arms. And your touch is so scarce that it's driving him insane, he wants more but knows not to beg.

And then there's more kissing. And now it's been over an hour that you've been tangled up in the scratchy blanket in his bed, just lying like this, fighting without words or fists. It's a game, a tango, a battle. He's winning but you're putting up the best damn fight you can.

Then he starts talking. Using words like 'cute' and 'naughty' and they make you squirm, even more so than the way he tickles the tips on his fingers along the edges of your kneecaps. He wants to tease you; he says he likes to tease. And you try to quip back at him, but you fail to utter anything intelligent, being rendered completely at his mercy. You aren't sure if this the alcohol speaking any longer. Your brain knows it isn't because it's long since worn off, but you use it as your excuse for weakness.

But the sun starts to come up, the dull orange glow illuminating the blinds of the window above your head and it makes you realize just how lost you had become in this. You spring up, suddenly finding your feet and try to give some hollow excuse. But as you walk out the door and into that cold sterile hallway, you suddenly feel empty.

Lost.

You're now begging that he come to bed with you, to just come down to _your_ room and lay with _you_. Until you fall asleep. It's a lie. You want to kiss him like he had kissed you, on your turf you could call the shots. But he yawns. He's tired; more tired than five minutes ago. And through a window, that dull hazy cast of the impending sun appears and you go to it like a calling. Kneeling in front of the window, face pressed against the open screen, trying to see if you can read the sunrise for any sort of warning.

But you've already signed your heart away; no warning can fix that now.

He's behind you, arms around your waist, nose in your hair, talking quietly about things you aren't paying attention to. You're thinking about yourself again.

Days later you find yourself in an empty bed. And though it's so stuffy and warm in that room, you shiver with the frigid prickle of loneliness. With eyes closed all you can think about is that night. The warmth of his breath on your neck, the heat radiating from the way his legs tangled with yours.

You blew it.

He's gone now. Miles away but really just down the hall where he's always been.


End file.
